


All across the thready sky

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Geefs Brothers' Satan Sculptures
Genre: Alternate History, Gen, Inspired by Art, Other, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28172289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: Monsieur Geefs finishes a sculpture. Monsieur Geefs tries again.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2020





	All across the thready sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadameHardy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameHardy/gifts).



> Inspired by [Face on breast](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41DOWE92sok) and [Angels of ashes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xgvU0YI-Ut8), by Scott Walker.

This is how an angel is born on earth—in a half-light, after the prayers, after the tears, after the flickering ashes and the marble dust.

And you are still a silent shadow, but I want to ask.

Will you be banished? Or will you banish me?

I want to ask. But you heard nothing—you did not see me.

So I try again. I lay down my tools, and I lean in close. Closer. I reach out. Hands on thighs, face on breast, breath upon breath upon sharp, sharp wings. Yes, closer. I lay down my tools. I lay my hands upon you. I try again—for an angel can fall, and come down from that Holy Place.

I try again. I want to ask.

If you cannot love God, can you love me?

You do not speak, of course. I did not mean for that to happen. But still, I hear your voice.

(And that, I did hope for.)

Yes, I hear your voice somehow. And who am I, that I should lean in this close? Who am I, that I should look at you so? I am not ashamed, but I look away. I do not ask—I do not want. I do not want anything from you.

But I want one thing.

I will try to show you.

I touch you. I touch your cold, cold face—the face I made. It is curious, but I do not remember that tear. I do not have the tools or the skill to make it. But it is there. It is there, for angels have nights, just as humans do.

I made the wings, straining behind your back—the wings, wrapped in flame, that move me and make me tremble. I made the eyes, the mouth, and the closed fists. I made the curve of the spine, the points of light, the feet still black with fire. I made the withered heart. Sharp, sharp, I made the chain, the sadness in your brow, the pain in your hands.

Perhaps, I made that tear.

 _Perhaps I could have loved!_ you say. And with your bent wings upon my head, you try to show me, for angels have nights, yes, and barren stars, sharp like glass.

The light touches you, my fingers are red fire in the sunrise.

 _Will you break the chain?_ you ask.

And once more, I lean in close, closer. I answer, a whisper into marble, a kiss of bitten apples and stars that smear the mouth, and feathers that glide above, and fall, fall at my feet.

And you, the angel in silent shadows, you say _be mine_ —warm hands singing, mouth like psalms, like hymns. And I made you so. Sharp knees, sharp fingers, I made you so. And I leave you so. Unclasped. Unparted. Perhaps, with the desires of my heart, with the dreams of my soul, I made you gentle.

Again, I find my tools. I try again. I touch you—but I do not count your ribs, your talons, your tears. I try again. I pledge my love, in the curve of your wings, in knowing your tongue of Heaven, your song of songs.

I try again. I touch your hand, I see the tear. I offer you my breast, so you can hide there. I try again. I wipe away the tear.

Yes, I try again. I will try to show you. This time, you will be a young, sleeping angel. You will be unchained, save for the delicate gold band on your feet—the one you were always meant to have. And no one will disturb you. No one will know. I promise. If no angel will dare to tell your story, if no saint will dare to say your name, I will. I promise you. I promise.

A prayer in your ear, hidden within my heart—I promise.

I promise. I break the chain. And perhaps, you will love me. You will welcome me, hear me, breathe me in. You will reach through the darkness and touch me. You will stay here, with me—sleeping black swan, alone, fiery and pale, with your hair, black with fire, and your sharp, strange wings, like a sombre cloak, all across the thready sky. And no one will know. And no one will find you, angel, sad and loved and unknown, born of a human tear. Dark spirit and morning star and tongue of Heaven, roused tiger leaping from the dust, from the light, into marble, into my arms.

**Author's Note:**

> \- According to Belgian artist Jacques Van Lennep, this sculpture was influenced by the poem [Éloa, or the sister of the angels](https://minds.wisconsin.edu/bitstream/handle/1793/61400/eloaweb.html?sequence=1&isAllowed=y#english), and its descriptions of Lucifer (potentially) being able to find redemption through love.
> 
> \- The "young, sleeping angel" refers to [a small sculpture](https://market.renderosity.com/rr/mod/gallery/full.php?member&image_id=1733832) found in 1993 in an abandoned house, and very likely made by Gillaume Geefs.


End file.
